


The Black Forest

by MagpieTales



Category: Southern Vampire Mysteries - Charlaine Harris
Genre: Action/Adventure, F/M, Historical
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-17
Updated: 2015-05-17
Packaged: 2018-03-30 21:47:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,279
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3952945
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MagpieTales/pseuds/MagpieTales
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Germany, 1378. It was quiet in the forest. Too quiet. He was bored, and the devil finds mischief for idle fangs.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Black Forest

_1378, Margraviate of Baden, Germany, Holy Roman Empire_

Cherry blossom floated like clouds in the moonlight. The trees thus adorned were sturdy, thick of branch, their trunks fat and scarred with age. Evenly spaced, they had been planted many moons ago when man took it upon himself to claw back this sheltered spot from nature's grip, cutting and clearing the wildwood to satisfy his appetite for sweetness. Now the orchard glowed in the night, an oasis of beauty surrounded on three sides by dark looming spruces and pines, the ancient forest crouched in wait above it.

Two women walked through the cherry trees, ducking the boughs, talking. One was tall and dressed in a good quality blue kirtle, her well-fed frame and robust health speaking to her status as much as her heavy bronze belt and the glint of a fine gold chain binding her chestnut hair. The other was dressed well but roughly, a round-faced plump girl with kind eyes and mousy hair.

“Oh Hildegard,” lamented the taller one in German, sighing dramatically. “What am I to do? Rudolf is gone and my heart is in pieces.”

“He will be back, Mistress,” said the other stoutly. “He would not abandon a gentle lady of your charms.” She looked admiringly at the taller woman, who snorted.

“It seems my _charms_ are not enough. Rudolf is across the Rhine in Strasbourg, and he may as well be dead. His mother is set against the match and my father has a mind to marry me elsewhere. To some hideous old Viscount no doubt! All that work for nothing. Come, we must get back before we are missed.”

Unseen by the two women, a shadow detached itself from the trunk of a spruce at the edge of the forest. Cloaked in darkness, the tall figure watched the women leave with interest.

The vampire had come from the nearest town, Offenburg, where there was good hunting for one of his kind. Replete with blood and sated by the warmth of the woman he'd bedded there, he had been returning to his hideout deep in Der Schwarzwald, the Black Forest, when the cherry trees caught his eye and he stopped to admire the blossom.

He had found more to admire than flowers this night. Here was a challenge set before him by fate, an unexpected gift. And who was he to ignore a gift from the gods?

A luscious nobleman's daughter, on his doorstep and ripe for the plucking. And headstrong too, not afraid to sneak out at night with only a handmaiden to protect her. He smiled, a shadow within shadows. A little seduction was just what he needed to relieve the monotony of his nights while he lay low in the forest, waiting out the wrath of the vampires he had angered. He would sample her right under her father's nose.

~~00~~

The challenge turned out to be concealing what he was, not the seduction. That went smoothly from the second Irmengard, daughter of the Count of Ortenberg, laid eyes on him.

Eric took care to wear his good doublet, the one he'd stolen in Strasbourg, from a minor nobleman so the crest wouldn't be recognised here and cause him problems. It was velvet, dyed a rich dark blue and a snug fit, showing off his lean frame perfectly. Paired with his best – and tightest – hose he knew he cut a dashing figure waiting for his prize, who, he had discovered by glamouring her handmaiden Hildegard, planned to slip out that very night to take a stroll about the orchard.

Hildegard said the heat of May made the air inside the Count's stronghold too thick and cloying for her mistress. Eric suspected it was something else entirely that was slowly suffocating Irmengard within those cold stone walls.

Eric was leaning against a cherry tree when he heard them coming.

He struck a pose, legs stretched out, and head bowed as if deep in thought, displaying his body to good effect. As soon as Irmengard saw him, she was intrigued by the unknown handsome stranger who dressed so well. Her eyes lingered on his hands, his thighs, but longest on his doublet, which he had carelessly – oh so carelessly – left undone at the neck.

Suffice it to say that the cut of his cloth impressed her.

They fell to talking once he'd righted his attire, fingers lingering on the buttons just long enough to draw her eye. He wove a story of a broken heart, just broken enough to explain his wandering alone at night, seeking the comfort of her father's orchard to soothe his soul. He asked if her husband did not send guards with her when she walked at night, if the threat of wolves did not concern her.

“The wolves stick to the woods, and I to the orchard. There is nothing to fear,” she said haughtily, and he almost laughed. He was far more dangerous than any wolf. She sighed, and admitted, "And alas, I have no husband to take such pains over my safety. My hand is unclaimed, good sir."

He professed the right amount of astonishment at that situation.

"I can only hope my father makes me a good match," she said, casting her eyes demurely to the side. "Or I fear I may be forced into a nunnery."

Well, if she could use such unabashed hyperbole, so could he. "Surely not, my lady,” Eric replied. “One as lovely as you must have many rich suitors. Your father would be a fool to turn them all away."

She feigned embarrassed modesty and he graciously changed the subject, lamenting his own father's plans to marry him off to some innocent girl not half as beautiful as his lost love. "Or indeed," he added coyly, "as beautiful as the woman who appears before me in this very orchard."

He reached out to dislodge a fallen petal from her hair, and she breathed in sharply.

"I am sorry," he said in a hoarse whisper, smouldering at her. "I forget myself before such perfection. You are a vision, one I doubt paradise above could rival."

He watched her eyes dilated and hid his smile. He had her.

It wasn't long before she was flirting openly with him. When the opportunity came to glamour her, her brown eyes fixed on his, he held back, deciding on the spur of the moment to do without his supernatural powers of persuasion. Just this once, he would do it the old-fashioned way, see if he hadn't lost his touch. Spin the seduction out, teasing her and himself. The prize would be all the sweeter for it.

So he kept to soft words that night, words that slid easily off his tongue. And a few heated glances, a chaste kiss pressed to her hand when they parted.

Why not? It was no hardship. It wasn't as if he would be missing out, not with the smorgasbord of prey within flying distance. Offenburg at the head of the Kinzig valley, Baden to the north, and Strasbourg across the mighty Rhine – they all offered him easy hunting. Safer to drink his fill from one amongst the masses of the poor there, in the larger towns, where another pale-faced exhausted woman would not be remarked upon.

Here, his activities were more likely to be found out, his nature exposed. It was madness to set up a regular tryst with Irmengard, with a Count's daughter no less.

But Irmengard wasn't the only one suffocating.

Eric was tired of quick and dirty fixes of blood, of fucking in some dark alley, or on some flea-ridden straw pallet in some pauper's house. It was enough to slake his thirst for blood, his physical needs, but not his deeper thirst for connection.

~~00~~

Eric raised himself to his knees, and gazed down at the bounty spread before him. Her skin was creamy white against the carpet of petals, and her legs trembling slightly, relaxed and splayed open. A faint blush coloured the skin between her soft breasts, and he licked his bloody lips, tasting her sweetness on them and revelling in it.

Irmengard was a beautiful woman. She had definitely been worth the wait. He watched the bite on her inner thigh fade as it healed, and then leaned forward to lick the dark smear away, his blood and hers mingled together, black in the moonlight. It wouldn't do to leave evidence of his … attentions.

"Mmm. Frederick," she murmured breathily, heavy-lidded eyes fluttering open. A slow smile lit her face and she sighed happily. "I cannot wait until your father gives you his permission."

"Hush, rest now," Eric soothed, and her eyes drifted closed without the pressure of glamour. He had worn her out. Once he was sure she was insensible, he called the handmaiden over. Hildegard fell under his thrall easily, and exposed her neck to him.

He struck quickly, not savouring his meal. Her blood was thinner, the sour tang of past starvations present in every mouthful. He regretted washing away the richer flavour of her mistress, but needs must. He hadn't been to town in a fortnight, concentrating his time on his pursuit of Irmengard, and it was too risky to take all the nourishment he required from one woman at his age.

He was taking enough risks as it was. But then there was no joy in an easy challenge.

In truth, Eric was well satisfied. He had completed the seduction in less than a month, tasting Irmengard before the blossom had blown from the boughs. And all without the use of glamour. Well, none beyond the touch he needed to hide the coldness of his skin, his fangs and his blood-drinking. He had given her a false name, made sure to heal his bites, and been careful not to take so much blood from her that the Count would suspect something.

Risky, but well worth it.

Irmengard was as delicious as he'd expected. She had yielded to his eventual physical advances with enthusiasm, and neither of them had been disappointed.

He knew they were both playing a game: he to alleviate his boredom and she driven by a desperate determination to avoid the shrivelled up Viscount her father had in mind for her. Irmengard was hoping to force her father's hand with a pregnancy sired by Eric, but that was a trap that would not catch a vampire.

It was a pity, but there was nothing he could do about her fate. Except leave her with the memory of him – a fair exchange for the warmth and blood he took from her, he felt. Something to warm the bitter winter nights ahead of her with the aged Viscount. Something to ward against the disappointments to come.

She had had her share of those already. She had been married and widowed in quick succession, before a child could cement her place in the husband's household. So at least Eric hadn't taken her maidenhead and made her unmarriageable.

He wasn't a complete bastard: he didn't deflower innocents in an age when it would ruin them.

Eric sent the servant girl back to keeping lookout, and stood watching Irmengard for a moment, his eyes on her full lips. She was a delight. Really quite skilled, especially with her mouth. He wondered if it was her first husband who'd taught her that, or some other lover. Rudolf perhaps, a fool for deserting her.

Idly, he wondered how long he could keep the lovely Irmengard on the hook he'd baited.

~~00~~

Spring warmed to summer. In the heat it was harder to hide his cool skin. It took more little touches of glamour to keep Irmengard content, and he planned to end the affair.

Soon. But not tonight.

Cherries, dark and swollen, hung from the trees and shone under the moon like fat drops of blood. Eric plucked a handful from the branches, and fed them to Irmengard one by one, as they lay on his cloak. He caressed her lips with the ripe fruit, teasing her, encouraging her to bite. He watched her tear into the dark flesh, juice oozing round her small white teeth, dark as blood in the faint light of the moon. Her tongue flicked out to lick the escaping sweetness from her lips again and again.

He held back until his blood was on fire for her.

Then he kissed her ferociously. In a blink he had her on her feet, and was pushing her against the tree, fumbling to undo the lace at the front of her kirtle. Her breath was hot and fast, heady with the taste of cherries as it washed into his mouth. She pushed his hands away, drew up her skirts herself and undid his belt, tearing at his hose to free him. He tugged her kirtle off her shoulder, buried himself inside her above and below, fangs and cock throbbing with urgent need. She called his name to the stars as he took her, and he swallowed her cries in a salt-sweet kiss – her lips stained with cherry, his with blood.

Irmengard kept him returning to the orchard all summer long.

As the year cooled, his chilly flesh was less jarring and it took fewer touches of glamour to keep his secret. In truth, he found that freedom more addicting that Irmengard herself.

Irmengard became impatient with him, pressing him to approach her father, ask for her hand. He didn't glamour her into obedient silence. Instead, he made excuses for the delay, stole trinkets on his trips to Strasbourg and Baden to keep her sweet, played the part of the generous suitor.

He spent more time than was wise in the orchard.

He was careless.

~~00~~

Autumn passed, and winter came, sure and swift and silent.

It turned the Black Forest white.

After the first heavy snowfall, Eric had taken to landing a good way away from the orchard and walking through the forest to his trysts with Irmengard. He enjoyed the smell of the pine trees, the crunch of the powder, and it was more believable if he arrived looking like he'd walked through the drifts. Wet hose did not bother him, and drying clothes was no trouble, not now he had built up an extensive wardrobe. That was another risk he was taking. Before Irmengard he had no need of more than two or three outfits – few saw him twice.

While Eric relished the snow, Irmengard did not.

She brought a thick fur coat and laid it on the ground for them, under the cherry tree. Once she was in Eric's strong arms and his tongue was in her mouth she forgot the cold air, the unnatural coolness of his skin, the heat seeping from her into the ground, chilling her to the bone. When Eric pulled down the front of her dress and showered her breasts with chilly kisses, she moaned in pleasure and stared up unseeing at the dark lace-work of branches silhouetted against pale heavy clouds that heralded more snow to come. Eric's fingers tugged her skirt up, worked his hose lose, and he entered her with a hiss.

White flakes drifted lazily down around them, winter's icy crystals mimicking spring's petals. Fallen from the clouds or shaken loose from the branches by Eric's passion, Irmengard neither knew nor cared. She lost herself in him, and didn't flinch when he bit, only sighed in relief at the sharp pinch, shuddering beneath his weight as she came.

Eric enjoyed the soft hot swells of her body, the tickle of the furs, the cold wetness of the snow. He had his fill of her, made sure she was well-wrapped before he sent her back to the warmth of her father's hearth. Her blood still warmed him when he slipped into the darkness under the spruces, and Eric whistled softly to himself, kicking at the snow playfully as he walked.

~~00~~

Deeper in the forest, a figure flitted from tree to tree, soundless in the still night. The figure was swaddled in furs, a motley patchwork of grey, white and brown pelts sewn roughly together, forming both a shield from the cold and camouflage from the eyes of those it hunted.

The figure lifted its head as it crossed a patch of moonlight, revealing a dirty face half-hidden by a curtain of straggly straw-coloured hair. Then the head bent low, examining a scatter of powdered snow here, an impression there, seeking, hunting, locking onto a trail. It followed the footprints some way, moving quietly. Unslinging a bow from its shoulder, the figure crept forward and crouched behind a tree. Quietly, a grubby hand reached for the makeshift quiver at its back and slipped out on arrow. Nocking it, the figure rose to its feet, leaned around the tree, and drew the bow.

A noise, inaudible to human ears, startled the archer's quarry.

The fox pricked up its ears and trotted briskly away. Letting out a soft curse in a cloud of steamy breath, the archer melted back into the shadows, hands tightening on the bow as the sounds that had alarmed the fox arrived on the still air: the restrained creaks and rustles of men in armour, men trying to move quietly.

The archer pressed closer to the tree, eyes widening at the dark shapes picking their way through the forest, along the slope below. Militia men, wearing unfamiliar black tabards and carrying crossbows that glinted in the moonlight. Men in a killing mood, with grim faces and tight-pressed mouths. There was a priest with them, black robes flapping under his fur mantle, plumes of hot breath rising around his tonsured head.

The archer scowled.

What was a priest doing this far into the woods?

The men blazed a wide trail of crushed snow and broken branches. It was easy to follow.

~~00~~

Eric was humming softly as he walked. At the back of his mind he registered the scent of men, but the same scent, days old and fainter, had criss-crossed his path earlier, on the way to the orchard, and he had dismissed it as a hunting party, of no concern to him.

Besides, what did he have to fear from mere men? He was three centuries old, for fuck's sake.

There was a clearing ahead. Moonlight broke through the tall firs, caressing the snow with its ethereal glow and casting shadows in a single track of footprints. His, from the outward journey. No others disturbed the snow. He stepped out from the dark without hesitation, grinning and loping across the snow in a child's game, matching his steps to his earlier footprints.

As he reached the centre of the snow, he jerked to a halt, whipping round at the hiss of an axe cutting the air.

His fangs snapped down as he heard the dull thud of the same blade biting into wood. Now he'd stopped humming, he registered a half dozen or so muffled heartbeats around him. He crouched, about to spring into the air, but something flickered past his face.

A net, dropping neatly over him, dragged swiftly down by the rocks at its rim.

Silver!

It stung his face and hands, and he roared in shock, pulled to his knees. Snarling with pain, he tore at the netting with his bare hands as bulky shapes rose from behind trees and under snowdrifts. Men, at forty paces, forming a rough circle under the trees, a wider net closing in on him, shaking clouds of white powder from their armour, lifting their weapons, crossbows, taking aim.

A thin voice rang out: “Aim for the heart!”

With a hiss Eric grabbed the edge of the netting at last and flipped it off him, leaping to his feet.

The motion saved him. The first bolt hit too low, thudding into his belly. The second hit his thigh, boring deep into the muscle, hitting bone. Eric roared again, his belly on fire, his leg giving way.

Silver bolts!

Eric was furious. These bastards were going to pay, and pay in blood. He staggered as he propelled himself forward, speeding towards the closest of them, the one who'd fired first. As he moved, Eric scrabbled at the bolt in his stomach, fingers slipping in the thick blood gouting from the wound. Clenching his fist around the bolt and snarling, he yanked it out as he reached his target.

“Yours, I think,” Eric spat, and plunged it into the startled man's eye socket. Snuffed out instantly, his body went slack and the man fell to the floor in a boneless heap.

“Shoot him! Shoot him!” That thin, reedy voice again, urgent and off to Eric's right. A bolt whistled passed him, spending itself harmlessly in a snow drift.

 _Take out the leader,_ Eric thought.

Blocking out the pain in his thigh he ran towards the voice, to the right, and came across the next militiaman in the circle. He was fumbling with his crossbow, reloading, but he looked up at the crashing noise and saw the vampire barrelling through the undergrowth towards him. His mouth opened to yell in fright, and brown eyes met blue. Eric drilled his will into him, commanding roughly, “Shoot them! Protect me!”

“Do not look the demon in the eyes!” yelled the thin voice, rising with fear.

 _Too late,_ Eric thought, grinning viciously.

The glamoured militiaman raised his bow, turned past Eric and aimed across the clearing. The bolt whistled on its way and Eric heard it hit home. A cry rang out, followed by the soft thud of a body hitting snow.

As the glamoured man paused to reload, another bolt whistled past Eric, slamming into a tree, sending splintered bark flying into his face.

Shit! Eric veered left, but stumbled on his injured leg and a bolt slammed into his back, shattering his right shoulder blade, burrowing deep into his lung. Winded, he grabbed at a tree to steady himself, cursing. If that had hit a hand's width to the left–

“Take Herman down!” shouted a deeper voice. “He's under the demon's spell.”

Another whistle, and a bolt hit the glamoured man in the shoulder, spinning him around. Blood sprayed from the wound as he crumpled to the ground, filling the air with its mouthwatering aroma, but Eric was already moving, dodging deeper into the trees, seeking cover, his right arm hanging useless at his side.

He counted heartbeats.

_Three dead, four to go. Flank them through the trees, take out those fucking crossbows, leave the leader for last…_

Eric headed towards the man who'd shouted, the one who was quick-witted enough to realise the unfortunate Herman had switched sides. A stocky older man, he turned to face Eric, hands steady as he took aim with his crossbow. Eric put on a burst of speed, recognising a seasoned soldier when he saw one, and smacked the weapon from his hands before he could fire.

The man yelled in shock, but Eric had already closed on him. Growling ferociously, Eric grappled his prey around the chest one-armed, pinning the man's arms to his sides. He dragged him behind a tree, his arm constricting around the struggling man like a band of steel, snapping his ribs. The man's head dropped back as he cried out and Eric went for his throat but recoiled, hissing.

Silver! A fucking silver neck guard.

Bellowing in fury, Eric snapped the man's spine and threw him aside. Sensing danger, he looked up and saw one of the men had run out boldly of the trees into the clearing to get a clear shot at him. Eric launched himself upwards, using his ability to fly to vault over the crossbowman, turning in the air to drop neatly behind him. Eric snapped his neck, using enough force that it tore like cloth, the man's head spiralling away into the air, spraying a looping trail of red over the white snow.

_Five down, two left._

Blood, rich warm blood fountained from the body, distracting him. Snarling with need Eric clasped the corpse to his chest, turning to put it between him and the remaining men as he lowered his face, opening his mouth wide to catch the slowing gush of blood.

With a cry of horror the last militiaman charged from the trees, crossbow abandoned and a sword raised wildly over his head. Eric, lost to bloodlust, dropped the corpse after one mouthful, leaving himself wide open as the man ran at him screaming curses. Dropping to a crouch, Eric tensed to lunge, but a few paces from him the man froze, body jerking and awkward, like a marionette. Twisting in the air, he fell onto the blood-splattered snow at Eric's feet, stone dead. A wooden arrow was planted in his back.

Eric hissed and took a step back, momentarily confused. He shook his head to clear away pain and bloodlust, and looked up at the sound of undergrowth snapping and panicked words. The last man broke cover and ran full pelt across the clearing, long black skirts hitched up in his hands, skinny legs pumping ridiculously and a desperate prayer tumbling from his lips between gasping breaths.

A second arrow hit the fleeing priest square in the gut. He tumbled forwards with a grunting moan, and landed face down in the snow with a heavy thud.

~~00~~

Nothing moved for a long second.

Eric swayed on his feet, bloodlust fading. Weakened by blood-loss and silver, he sank to his knees. His shoulder burned, and his thigh felt like someone was pouring molten silver directly into the bone. He was in urgent need of blood.

_Get the fucking silver out first._

He ripped the bolt out of his leg, hissing as the barbs tore the muscle open. Angry, he threw the poisonous thing away from him and glared at the wound. It was slow to close. Staunching the dark viscous blood with his right hand, he hissed at the pain in that shoulder. He reached for the second bolt with his left hand.

No matter how he twisted he couldn't get a good enough grip on it.

Fuck. He'd have to knock it through. He tried one last time, straining to catch hold of it. The bolt shifted, sending pain drilling into his lung. A spasm racked his chest, and he fell forwards onto his hands, coughing and spitting up blood.

Blood he could ill afford to spare. Wiping his mouth on the shoulder of his doublet, he gathered his strength and pushed up, rocking back onto his haunches.

He froze.

There was an arrow pointed at his heart.

A very wooden arrow.

The archer stood ten paces away, bow drawn taut and aim steady. Ten paces might as well be a mile the state Eric was in. It was even odds that arrow would hit him if he launched himself straight at the archer.

Shit. Eric looked wistfully towards the bolt he'd just thrown across the clearing. He could have used that to take the archer down. But if he could get him to come closer …

The archer's green eyes were fixed on his chest. Damn. No way to glamour him – no, _her_ from the scent. A human her, although she smelt more like one of the two-natured at first sniff. She reeked of fox and rabbit and deer and sweat. Looked feral too. Dirt ingrained around her nails, matted hair, pelts sown haphazardly together for a cloak, feet roughshod in deerskin.

It wasn't unusual to meet the desperate and abandoned, out in the wilds. It had been a hard century.

“In the heart.” Her voice was hoarse when she broke the silence, her words harsh and stilted, as if her tongue were stiff. “That will kill you?”

Eric debated answering.

“Yes,” he replied truthfully. Then he lied: “But I can break your neck faster than you can loose that arrow.”

“Your wounds. They make you slow.”

Wasn't she observant. And, unfortunately, also right.

Eric needed this confrontation over, now. His leg was still oozing and he could feel more cold blood wetting his back, sticking his undershirt and doublet to him. If this stand-off lasted much longer, he would keel over before she shot him.

Time to try something else.

He retracted his fangs and said softly, “You should at least look a man in the eyes before you kill him.”

“You are no man.”

“Look at me,” he said, infusing his voice with seduction and glamour.

She shook her head, stubbornly staring at his chest. “The priest said not to.”

She spoke like a child. The dirt made it difficult to tell, but he judged she'd seen at least sixteen summers. Or more. She was thin, bordering on malnourished.

He said coldly, “You are no friend to the priest. You shot him.”

The bow didn't waver. Neither did she look up as he had hoped. Eric cursed his luck.

“And you killed that one too,” he said, pointing at the man lying face down, skewered by her arrow. “That's a mortal sin.”

Still she didn't look. Too clever to fall for that trick, damn her. He had to admire her self-control. And her nerve. She'd seen what he was, what he could do. A blood-soaked monster knelt before her, a thing of nightmares. Yet she stood firm.

“You helped me,” he said. “Why? What is it you want from me?”

“You are strong. Make me strong too.”

Eric blinked. “I cannot. You are human.”

She nodded and pulled back on the bowstring. Eric tensed, ready to throw himself to the side. If she loosed that arrow, he _would_ kill her.

But she didn't.

“Teach me to fight then,” she said.

Her voice was flat, and so was her face. Almost vampire-like. Something was off about her, but Eric didn't have time to dwell on it. He was weakening by the second. He needed assistance, however much it rankled to take it from a human. He asked cautiously, “What do you offer in return?”

“I won't kill you.”

“No, you will not,” he said confidently, with a wide smile. It was lucky she wasn't looking at him: the effect was anything but reassuring. His face was caked with gore, his teeth red with clotted blood. “If you mean to point an arrow at my chest the whole time, teaching you to fight will be impossible. Lower the bow and I'll consider it.”

“Promise first,” she said.

“Promise?” he asked in disbelief. As if a promise would protect her from him once that fucking arrow was pointing somewhere else.

“Swear you'll do it,” she repeated, unmoved.

Gods, she was like a dog with a bone. “No,” he snapped, losing patience. The acrid smell of his own burning flesh was irritating him as much as the throbbing pain in his shoulder. “Lower your bow.”

She pulled back on the bow again and insisted: “Give me your word, demon.”

Of course. That explained her insistence. 'Demons' were bound by their word. Foolish humans and their myths. She was fortunate that he did keep his word. Usually.

If he gave it. And if he gave it, it was only ever on his terms. Perhaps he could work the situation to his advantage. He let his fangs snap down. “Training takes time. I will need payment. In blood. You will give it.”

She thought for a moment. “It won't kill me?”

“No.” _Unless I want it to_.

“You may have my blood,” she said.

“You will not cause me harm. You will help me now.”

“I will.”

“Provide me with shelter from the sun tomorrow. Guard me through the day.” He knew he wouldn't make it back to his hideout.

She nodded.

“Very well. I will train you. You have my word. Now point that elsewhere.”

She lowered the bow slowly, warily, keeping her eyes down.

He gestured at his back. “Pull it out. I cannot reach.”

Slinging the bow over her shoulder, she walked round him, keeping her distance. He felt her take hold of the bolt. She tugged hard, and he hissed in pain. She tugged again, levering the bolt to work it free, leaning back, using all her weight, and grunting with the effort.

“It's stuck,” she said.

Fuck. His luck had well and truly deserted him. He staggered to his feet, and she jumped back, reaching for her bow.

“Don't even think about it,” he growled, picking out a suitably robust tree.

He limped to it, lined his shoulder up and slammed back against it, gasping as the bolt thrust forward, breaking a rib. Light-headed, he slid down the trunk to sit in the snow. He looked down at the blood seeping out around the silver point, and said, “Damn. I liked this doublet.”

Two grubby hands came into view, latched on to the bolt firmly and pulled it out in one swift, confident motion. Eric coughed, his mouth filling with blood fouled with silver. He turned his head and spat it out, closing his eyes for a second. When he opened them, the girl was scooping up snow and scrubbing his blood off her hands.

“Your blood is sticky,” she said in disgust.

He wanted to laugh, but he knew that would hurt like a bitch. Instead he said roughly, “The priest. He lives. Bring him to me.”

She crossed the churned snow to the priest and landed a vicious kick to his side, but he didn't stir.

“Tut, tut. Such disrespect for the Holy Orders,” Eric said teasingly.

She didn't answer, bending to roll the priest over onto his back. A spasm curled his limbs, making him look like an up-ended black beetle. Eric closed his eyes again, listening as she dragged him over, listening to the priest's weak, pattering heartbeat.

Panting, she dropped the unconscious man beside the vampire.

Eric's eyes snapped open. He hauled the priest to him and bit into his throat, tearing at his flesh, drinking him dry in great thirsty gulps as the girl watched, stoic. He pushed the corpse away when he was done with it, and wiped his mouth on his ruined doublet, grimacing as he felt his ribs and shoulder blade begin to knit back together.

Now to find out how deep in the shit he was.

He dragged himself to his knees, holding his right arm tight to his side as he searched the coarse black robe one-handed. Pulling out a bundle of parchment, he rested it on the priest's unmoving chest and riffled through it until he found what he wanted. A letter to the abbot at Gengenbach, a stone's throw from Ortenberg. From the Bürgermeister of Freiburg, confirming his militiamen were at the abbot's disposal, equipped with the special weapons and armour that the abbot had requested.

Freiburg.

Seventy miles to the south. A rich town, even minted their own coins. Silver coins, made with silver from their mines.

Well, fuck. That explained a lot.

Eric sat back on his haunches, and rubbed his face wearily, reconstructing the chain of events that lead to this disaster.

The Count had found out he was feeding on Irmengard somehow. Or maybe Hildegard, he'd been more careless about healing her bites. The Count had run to the nearest abbot, babbling about his daughter and a mysterious suitor called Frederick. By chance, a very unlucky chance for Eric, the abbot knew a trick or two, and worked out what 'Frederick' was. He sent to Freiburg for assistance. These men, with their silver nets and crossbow bolts and neck guards, had been sent to hunt a vampire.

It was them he'd scented in the forest earlier.

They'd been tracking him, found the path he took from the spot he landed at to the orchard – because he'd been lazy about that too, taking the same route these last few weeks.

He cursed himself for a fool. He'd made it easy for them to set up an ambush.

His nights with Irmengard were over. No more taking his pleasure under the cherry trees, no more of her sweet blood. Instead he had this one, this filthy, stinking, half-starved feral girl. He gave her a sour look.

No doubt her blood would be as thin as she was.

She ignored him, peering at the darkness under the trees on the opposite side of the clearing. Shadows moved there. She reached for her bow again. “We should leave,” she announced, as the sharp hot scent reached him. “Wolves.”

A bolder wolf crossed close to the clearing and paused, front paw raised. Turning its head it locked eyes with Eric. He growled low in his throat and it darted back into the shadows.

“They'll come back,” she said, turning to go.

“Good. They can feast on the dead.” Their bites would disguise his. Their scent would muddy his for when more humans came hunting him, with dogs.

He got to his feet and followed her, cursing the fact he was too weak to fly. It was a long walk.

~~00~~

Eric scrambled inelegantly down the steep side of yet another gully, too weary even to levitate. Cold might not affect him, but it sapped his energy. His clothes were heavy with water, his hose torn and muddy. The girl had stopped to wait for him.

It was humiliating.

A furlong from the massacre, she had led him to a stream, shallow but freezing. She hadn't flinched, plunging straight into the icy water and sticking to its course for a good mile. A necessary evil: it would throw any pursuit off their trail, at least long enough for him to rest safely for the day.

The girl didn't move on when he caught up to her. He looked round. The snow wasn't as deep here. The gully was sheltered, and he'd scented nothing but animals for the last few miles. His eyes fell on a square of rough stones, coated with the ashy remains of old fires, a battered cooking pot sitting next to it.

“You live here?” he asked, eyeing the … Hovel would be over-generous. It was a rough huntsman's shelter, fallen boughs making a lean-to against the rocks at the side of the gully.

She nodded, and disappeared inside. Eric ducked in after her. It smelt of bear and her scent. The space was barely big enough for both of them and he had to kneel, a bed of ferns shifting under him. She pulled at the boughs behind it, leaning against the rock face, shifting them aside to reveal a dark hole.

Ah. That explained the smell of bear. Perfect.

The den was short, but the ground inside was dry. There was a pile of furs to sleep on. The girl curled up on them like a cat and went straight to sleep. Eric looked at her, debating whether to just drain her now and save himself the trouble.

It was her smell more than anything that decided him against it. He slipped back out and found the boulder that he'd spotted further down the gully. It would take two, maybe three human men to move it. It was the best he could do on short notice, weak as he was. He rolled it slowly up the slope.

The sky was beginning to lighten. He shook the girl awake and grabbed her chin before she could look away. Her eyes were pale green, like a patch of shallow ocean in sunlight. “Conceal the entrance. You will forget I am here until sunset. If men come looking, you will say nothing.”

Satisfied she would obey, he let her go. Once she was outside he pulled the boulder into the entrance, blocking it as best he could, but not quite sealing it. He listened for a moment to make sure she put the branches back, and then stripped and curled up on the furs himself.

~~00~~

When he came out, she was gnawing meat off a bone. She threw it in the fire when she saw him, wiping her hands on her furs. Her mouth was smeared with grease.

“You will teach me now?” she asked.

“Is there water near by?” he countered.

“Water?”

“To bathe in.” His clothes were stiff with blood and he stank. She was not much better.

She shrugged and led him down the gully, over a rise and to a stream. A few minutes walk and they came to a spot where it pooled about three feet deep. Eric stripped, washed himself, then his clothes. He walked naked out of the icy water, and stood wringing out his hose and doublet. She waited patiently on the bank, watching him with supreme indifference.

“Teach me now,” she said.

“First you will feed me.” As meals went she wasn't appealing, but he needed the blood.

She frowned. It was the most noticeable expression she'd made.

“You agreed,” he reminded her, finding himself intrigued. She'd watched him devour the priest, but she wasn't afraid. She looked … more annoyed than anything.

Her fingers went to her front, worked on the fastening of her furs. She shook them off and pulled her hair back, offering him her neck. She was in underclothes: a smock that was too short and a pair of baggy, holed stockings, both grey with encrusted dirt. Goosebumps rose on her arms but she stood patiently, waiting.

Eric decided to have some fun with her. He said haughtily, “Bathe first. You are filthy.”

She frowned again, deeper. “No. I did not agree to that.”

He tried again, deliberately provoking her. “Bathe. You reek, and I do not like the taste of dirt.”

“No.” She was petulant. He had expected shame, or embarrassment. “I did what you said. Take my blood. Then you have to teach me.”

“I do not have to do any such thing. Bathe and then I will drink.”

She went rigid. “No! Take my blood and teach me.”

He folded his arm and leaned forwards, a menacing look on his face. “No. Bathe.”

“I did my part!” she yelled. “I helped you. I hid you from the sun. I did everything you asked. No bathing, you never said bathing!”

He chuckled. “Are you sure you're human? You stick to the letter of an agreement better than any demon I've met.”

“Take that back!” she screamed. With a snarl she pulled a knife from her furs and launched herself at him. He knocked the blade out of her hand and pushed her to the ground, but she came at him again, kicking and clawing in a frenzy. Laughing, he held her at arms length. “Foolish girl. You can't hurt me.”

When she showed no sign of stopping, he picked her up and tossed her in the stream. She rose from the icy water, spluttering and coughing, cursing him to the heavens.

It only made him laugh louder.

She turned her back to him, teeth chattering, and peeled off her soaked clothing. Bundling it up, she threw it at his face. He caught it and grinned at her, and that got another scowl from her.

“Scrub yourself before you freeze,” he said, amused now. Once she complied, he crouched in the shallows and rinsed out her clothes until the stream ran clear, marvelling that they didn't fall apart without their crust of grime. Clean clothes should improve her smell, and she obviously didn't care to wash them.

Shivering violently, she wrapped herself in her furs as soon as she got out. She wouldn't look at him on the way back to the gully. Once he had the fire lit, and their clothes hanging by it to dry, and her sitting close by it flushed with the heat, he said teasingly, “That was your first lesson. Do not lose your temper with a stronger opponent.”

She frowned into the flames.

“The blood,” he said, reminding her.

She nodded, pushing the furs off her shoulders.

He came to kneel next to her. He was still naked, but she seemed oblivious. As she swept her hair aside and exposed her neck the thought crossed his mind that she preferred women, and he thought to mess with her again. Then he saw lice in her hair, and grimaced.

“The wrist will do,” he said gruffly, wrapping his hand around hers and bringing it towards his mouth. As he dropped fang, she turned slightly to watch, looking puzzled when he licked the sensitive skin inside her wrist. He bit gently, and was pleasantly surprised by her taste.

Her blood was heavy and rich, but flat. Dulled by a diet of meat, he realised from past experience.

He took just enough, licked the bite closed and healed it. She held her wrist to the light of the fire and watched the punctures close with interest, but didn't question it. In fact, she didn't speak again until the clothes were dry and Eric dressed swiftly and turned to leave.

“Where are you going?” she asked, alarmed.

“To my home,” he said.

“What about my lessons?”

He was tempted to point out that she hadn't specified how long he was to teach her, but instead he shrugged. “I will come back. Tomorrow night or the next.”

She watched him leave with a distrustful look.

~~00~~

Eric kept his word, and took to turning up at the girl's camp every few nights.

Why, he wasn't sure. Curiosity more than anything, he thought. The girl puzzled him. And a regular supply of blood never hurt.

The rest of his time was split between hunting and covering his tracks, literally that first night. He flew back to the scene of the fight and checked the wolves had done their work. He was lucky – it had snowed heavily that day, delaying any pursuit.

It gave him time to lay some false trails leading away from the girl's camp. Hunting parties were out in force once the weather cleared, but they found nothing except half-eaten bodies and a few dead wolves.

As far as Eric could tell his hideout – a rough one-room cabin that he'd built himself, with a hidden chamber dug underneath it, much deeper in the forest – was still secure and undiscovered. But he'd learnt his lesson, and as a contingency he buried money and clothes in two other spots, and went back to varying where he rested. Even though it meant sleeping in the earth, which he detested.

Wary of returning to Ortenberg and its environs, he kept his hunting to Strasbourg and Baden for a week or two. Dressed more humbly than 'Frederick', he frequented drinking dens and listened for gossip about blood-drinking monsters. In Baden, a fortnight after that disastrous night, he ran into one of the Count's servants, and with an application of wine and glamour discovered Irmengard's fate: she'd been sent to Stuttgart, married off to an elderly Viscount there.

She'd been let off lightly then. He half-expected the good abbot to burn her at the stake. It wouldn't be the first time a vampire's meal was accused of consorting with the devil.

He thought Irmengard might prefer a quick fiery end to slow, lingering suffocation.

That night Eric also heard talk of a vicious wolf attack, which would hardly draw comment except those attacked were militiamen and well-armed. In the imagination of the populous the wolves were rabid and ferocious, and needed hunting down. There was talk of raising more hunting parties, once the snow eased, which put Eric on his guard.

Two hours later, he landed at the girl's camp, after checking thoroughly for out-of-place scents. She was waiting for him by the fire, as usual, the smell of roasted fowl hanging in the air. He tossed the lumpy bundle he was carrying at her. “Here, see if they fit.”

She unwrapped it on her lap, ignoring the clothes and frowning at the root vegetables inside them. She sniffed at a turnip suspiciously. “Where did you get these?”

“A farm, near Baden.”

“You don't eat,” she said. Her voice was smoother now, and her words came easier. “Are they for me?”

“Yes, and for me. Variety will improve your blood. Meat alone is not good for you.”

“What's variety?” she asked.

“In this case, eating more than one thing.”

Shrugging, she moved the root vegetables off her lap and inspected the clothes. He'd stolen her a good pair of men's hose, an undershirt and a thick tunic. “These are for men,” she remarked, shimmying out of her furs.

“They will be easier to fight in.”

She smiled gleefully as she pulled off her smock. “Can we start now?”

She was eager, he'd give her that. And a quick learner. They'd covered the basics of unharmed combat already, and he was building on that before he taught her sword-craft. There wasn't anything he could teach her about bowmanship, and precious little to add to her woodcraft.

They sparred until her legs were shaking with fatigue. She sprawled on the ground next to the fire, sullen and breathing hard.

“You are improving.”

She glared at him. “I can't hurt you.”

“I am not human. That blow to the throat would fell a mortal man.” He waited for her breathing to settle. She had agreed to bathe regularly for him and she smelt almost pleasant tonight, the faint musk of sweat from her exertions fresh, and not yet stale. “I need blood.”

She pulled up the sleeve of her tunic. Eric eyed her wrist for a second, and shook his head. He wanted to test a theory. “The neck,” he said simply.

She didn't seem to care one way or another, shrugging off her new tunic without complaint. But she stiffened when he pulled her onto his lap. “It will be more comfortable,” he said softly. He could glamour her, but he hadn't since that first night, and he found he didn't want to. She had begun to look him in the eye – quick darting glances, and only when they trained – and he knew instinctively that she would stop that if he took her control.

Control was important to her, and he thought he knew why.

He ran a hand up and down her back and shushed her, as he might have done while he was human to soothe a startled horse. Little by little she relaxed against him. Her head was on his shoulder, and he shifted her a little to get at her neck. He began kissing her there, soft butterfly kisses that slowly became wet and sucking. Her skin tasted of salt and sweat.

She made an irritated noise in the back of her throat.

Between kisses he mumbled against her skin, “You will enjoy it, I promise.” He carried on, pushing her undershirt aside to get at her collarbone, kissing there as his fingers trailed down her front, skimming her breast. When she didn't tense, he palmed the small mound and teased at her nipple, kissing his way to her ear.

Nothing. She might as well be asleep. Her breathing was even, her heart steady. Not so much as a whiff of arousal. He pulled back in confusion, and asked bluntly, “Do you not desire me?”

She blinked slowly a few times, as if in a trance, and looked just as confused. “No.” She added uncertainly, “Maybe it's because you're a demon.”

“That does not make a difference. Usually.” But if he was right … He tucked her hair behind her ear, and said gently, “But I am a man. And men have hurt you.”

Her eyes shifted away from his. “Women too. Neither spared me the rod.”

“I did not mean beatings,” he said quietly.

“Oh.” She frowned. “I don't remember. They gave me brandy.”

He was careful to keep his face as stoic as hers, pity would not help. He asked, “Should I continue?”

She shrugged.

He went back to kissing her neck, rubbing her back. It seemed to relax her, at least, but he didn't take it further. He made his bite as pleasurable as he could, something that generally left his meals moaning and panting.

But the girl was not like other girls, not at all. All he got from her was a faint scent of arousal as his fangs slid home.

~~00~~

The girl lunged at the dear carcass hanging from the tree, slashed it viciously with her sword.

“No. Widen your stance, keep your weight on the back leg.” Eric slapped the flat of his blade against her thigh to drive his instruction home. “Again.”

They'd been at it for an hour. Eric had stolen her a suitable sword on a trip into town a week ago, and she'd given him one of her rare smiles when she saw it.

Or maybe the smile was for the basket of vegetables he brought with it. Or the pastries. It was hard to tell. With all the food he was bringing her, she was filling out nicely.

It was to his benefit to keep his blood supply healthy, after all.

He'd given up offering anything else in return for her blood after his first few attempts to seduce her fell flat. For whatever reason, that particular pleasure of the flesh left her cold.

Tonight her smile had been for the dead dear slung over his shoulder when he walked into her camp. That smile had only widened when he told her it wasn't for eating, it was time they moved on from practising footwork to working with a real target.

Good job the dear was dead. She was attacking it with gusto.

“Better,” he said, watching her stance critically. Eric had enjoyed teaching her this last month.“Now try the lunge we practised last night.”

She stabbed ferociously at the dear, skewering the carcass. “Ha!”

“Now what? Your blade is stuck.”

Without hesitation, she braced the dear with her foot and pulled the blade out with a grunt.

“Good. Again.”

He watched her working up a sweat, thinking over the last fortnight. All in all, everything was going well.

The weather had broken ten days ago. There had been a second party of men from Freiburg armed with silver, but this time Eric had been ready for them. He'd led them on a merry chase for seven nights. Somehow, on the last night, their commander got separated from his men. When they'd reunited, the commander was whole-heartedly convinced that 'Frederick' was nothing more that a run-of-the-mill scoundrel who preyed on women. All this superstitious nonsense about demons was just the church's way of keeping ignorant peasants in line.

Glamour was such a useful tool.

Even better, Eric had bumped into Irmengard's father the Count, leaving his favourite tavern in Offenburg. They'd had a very enlightening conversation – not entirely voluntary on the Count's part – and now Eric knew all about the vampire expert at Gengenbach Abbey.

And the Count knew a lot less about 'Frederick'. Old men had shockingly poor memories, didn't they?

So Eric had the situation well in hand.

Mostly.

There was still the matter of the would-be 'vampire-hunter' at Gengenbach, who was bedridden, recuperating from some injury over the winter. Eric had not had any luck getting at him, safe within the Abbey, but he could wait for his revenge. If the man thought Eric had left the area, he would drop his guard.

“Enough for tonight,” he said, when the girl's slashes became erratic.

They retired to the fire. The girl ate a bowl of stew noisily while Eric watched the flames. Wiping her mouth on the back of her hand, she asked, “Are you hungry?”

“No.” After a while, he asked, “How long have you lived here?”

Looking up from wiping her bowl out with a crust of bread, she thought for a moment. “Five winters.”

“Alone?” he asked.

She nodded.

Those winters had been brutal. Gods, she was resourceful to survive out here. He remembered how rough her voice was that first night, and wondered how long it had been since she spoke to another soul. “How old are you?”

She put the bowl down to count on her fingers. “Eighteen.”

“What happened to your family, your parents?”

She pulled at her sleeve for a moment, something he'd noticed she did when she was unsettled. “I don't remember my mother.” She searched her memory. “I had an older brother, but he left. My father was a hunter.”

“He taught you to hunt.”

“Yes. He died.”

“A plague?” There'd been many.

She shook her head. “Hunger.”

Starvation wasn't uncommon. Harsh winters followed by wet summers meant crops failed. There had been plagues, riots, lawlessness. Talk of cannibalism.

This century was difficult. Even for vampires, especially when humans turned to superstition and violence.

~~00~~

As the winter ebbed, Eric turned up at the camp more often, aware that he had to move on soon. Once the snow was gone, someone in Freiburg might take it into their heads to come wolf hunting again.

The girl had worked hard, without complaint. She was a fighter. Tonight they were taking things a step further. Her eyes widened when he walked into camp and dropped the watchman he was carrying at her feet.

“I thought it was time you had a human opponent.”

She frowned. “Who is he?”

“Scum,” Eric said succinctly. He'd come across him in back alley, beating a woman to a bloody pulp. His fate would be poetic justice. Eric bent over the man, catching his eyes and ordering, “Stand up.”

To the girl he said, “Are you ready?” She already had her sword. She was never without it now. He was sure she slept with it. “Use the flat of your blade unless you mean to kill him and end the lesson.”

To the man, he simply said, “Kill her.”

As expected, the girl held her own despite the man's greater strength and reach. Between Eric's glamour and her skill they kept the bastard on his feet for half an hour before she finally killed him.

Eric disposed of the body and returned to find her by the fire. She looked content.

“You did well,” he said. “Your lessons are almost finished.”

“You cast a spell on him. With your eyes.” She looked up at him, meeting those eyes fully. “Did you do that to me?”

He sat down. “Once. The day I rested here.”

“Why?”

“To make sure you would keep me safe.”

“You needed me.”

“Yes. When the sun is up, I am … weak.”

“Weak is bad.”

“But at night I am strong.”

She looked into the fire, thinking.

“What happened?” he asked. “To make you live here, in the forest?” It was the last piece of the puzzle, the last thing he needed to make sense of her.

“After my father died…” She pulled at her sleeve. “I stayed in our cabin. On my own. But it wasn't safe.”

“The men with the brandy.”

She nodded. “I went to work for the Widow Albrecht after that, in the village.”

“The one who beat you.”

“Yes. She let me sleep in her barn. But the cows got sick and she thought it was my fault. The villagers threw stones at me, and I ran away. Because the priest said I was a witch.”

That explained her dislike of holy men. Eric asked teasingly, “Are you a witch?”

She frowned. “I don't think so. I can't cast spells with my eyes. I haven't made a bargain with the devil.” She looked sideways at him. “Unless you're him.”

Eric laughed. “No. No, I am not the devil.”

She looked faintly disappointed.

“Why did you say you don't think so?” he asked, serious again.

“I am different. Not the same as other people.” She shrugged. “Maybe the priest was right. He said I was … unnatural. The villagers called me a changeling.”

“You are human.”

She looked doubtful. “Are you sure?”

“Yes. A strong human though.” She smiled at that.

~~00~~

It was time to move on. The forest streams were swollen with the spring thaw. There would be more huntsmen in the forest, more chance of discovery. He sat by the fire with her for the last time, his plans made.

“What is your name?” she asked, out of the blue.

“Eric. Eric the Northman,” he said, wondering if she sensed their time was over. “What is yours?”

“Christyne,” she answered quietly. “My father called me his little Kirsche.”

“Cherry. It suits you.” Eric smiled to himself. That decided it. He didn't generally believe in fate, but it was cherries that had brought her to him.

“Don't make me forget you,” she demanded.

“Min kirsche, I am vampire,” he began.

~~00~~

One second she was a quiet hum in his blood, and the next he was flooded with a mixture of puzzlement and curiosity. Eric chuckled quietly. He'd thought she'd need the security of familiar surroundings, but as usual she surprised him. She was almost calm.

She sat up and wrinkled her nose. “What's that terrible smell?”

“The bear that lived here before you.”

“Oh.” She looked out of the entrance, into the dark, and her fangs dropped. “And that sound?”

“I brought you a present.”

She took to feeding as if she'd been born to it. The vampire-hunter didn't enjoy the experience quite so much.

Eric watched her drain him dry with great satisfaction. He'd been wrong that night he'd stopped at the cherry orchard. The treasure he had stumbled across here wasn't Irmengard with her supple curves and her sweet blood.

It was this fierce, strange girl, a fighter and a survivor just as he was.

She made the perfect child.

**Author's Note:**

> Written for American Android's Historical Fiction Contest, over on Area5BloodyPen.
> 
> This is AU. This Eric has a different past to the one in the books, so the girl he turns here is not Karin. (And in case you wondered, this Eric is not the Eric from my Long Haul series.)


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